From the Future
by microscope
Summary: The untold side of Wilbur Robinson's life is documented in a journal that Lewis-of-the-past finds in his possession. Nothing could have prepared Lewis for what he was about to discover about the boy he thought he knew so well...
1. Chapter 1

**Well kids, here it is, just like I promised. Yeah, I know, I'm just as scared as you are right now… **

* * *

Lewis was frustrated.

He'd been working on his newest invention for nearly a week now, and he still didn't have any success. No matter how long the 13 year old inventor stared at the paper, none of it made sense. Lewis had calculated and re-calculated his equations a dozen times over, and a breakthrough had yet to be made.

With an exasperated growl, Lewis chucked his pencil across the room and watched with satisfaction as it bounced off of his bed and disappeared behind the little space between the mattress and the wall.

Momentarily distracted, Lewis allowed his gaze to drift around the room, his mind drifting to idle and unimportant musings...

After being adopted by Lucille and Bud Robinson, Lewis had been more than lucky to be granted a life of luxuries, including the entire top floor of their newly-purchased estate. The Robinson residents' was an old observatory, and Lewis had immediately fallen in love with his glass-dome enclosed bedroom/laboratory.

It was more of a lab than anything, and despite the fact that he had a bed and other normal "bedroom" things, the massive space was overrun by piles of his inventions. Some were completed, some were in progress, but not a single one was abandoned.

Lewis was very much proud of his laboratory, but somewhere underneath all his hard work was the room of a typical teenaged boy. While Lewis tended to be a rather organized person, there was no missing the occasional pile of clothes in a corner, or a shelf that needed dusting from time to time. Although he very much had a bed, Lewis seldom slept in it, and it was more often that he found himself falling asleep at his desk, slumped over the work that he constantly occupied himself with.

Unlike most adolescents, Lewis found that he didn't need a lot of sleep, and he could keep himself going with only a few hours of it each night, if he even got around to it. He strongly believed that there was more important things you could be doing at night, besides sleeping, such as trying to work out a very important formula…

Being reminded of said formula set Lewis into motion. He stood from his chair and strode across the room to his bed, chuckling quietly to himself as he thought, 'I really need to stop losing my temper.'

Lewis pressed his knees onto the mattress and sunk into it, crawling on his hands and knees to the other side. Pulling back the blanket a little, Lewis slid his arm down between the wall and the bed frame and fumbled around for a moment, feeling his fingers barely brush against the wood floor beneath.

After a moment of blindly feeling around, Lewis frowned in confusion when his fingers bumped against something that was definitely bigger than his #2 mechanical pencil. With some hesitation, Lewis gripped the slim object and slowly pulled his arm back out.

It was a journal. As observant as always, Lewis held it in his hands and examined it, handling it gingerly as he turned it this way and that in his hands. The cover was smooth and colored plain black, but Lewis noticed that if you tilted it a certain way in the light it almost looked like a dark blue.

It was worn, indicating that it was well used, and probably far from being new. Lewis ran his finger along the spine and felt the soft leather underneath his fingertips. Yes, this was definitely a nice journal but…

It wasn't his.

Suddenly, it occurred to Lewis that he had not been the one to sleep in his bed last. Several days before, Wilbur Robinson had shown up at his door and invited himself in, telling Lucille and Bud (who looked MUCH younger compared to the Lucille and Bud that Wilbur knew) that he was a classmate's of Lewis's who wanted to study with him for the afternoon.

Lewis was a little more than surprised when his future son explained that he just decided to "stop by " a year later to "catch up with his best friend." Lewis, in return, had lectured him about the time stream and just how ridiculous the whole idea was.

Wilbur had only sheepishly grinned as Lewis had hit him over the head with a stack of papers and told him how much trouble he would be in, come thirty years.

But nonetheless, the boys had ended up laughing together in the end, hugging and chatting like old friends. Eventually, Wilbur stayed for dinner, and then for the night, taking Lewis's bed as the young inventor had assured him that he would much rather sleep at his desk anyway. Besides, it was one night, and that's what Lewis did most of the time anyway.

Soon enough, however, one night turned into 2, and Lewis wondered exactly what was going on. Wilbur explained that everything would be fine after Lewis had inquired about the family noticing his absence.

While the whole incident was rather strange, Wilbur eventually went on his way, promising to visit again some other time as he'd climbed into the time machine and gone back to his time.

Lewis squinted at the journal. Was this from the future? Could it belong to Wilbur?

Curiously, Lewis leafed through the pages and looked for any sort of name. The handwriting within looked scribbled and frantic, but as he opened the inside cover, there was no mistaking the name written in black ink.

_If found, please return to Wilbur Robinson_

Lewis noticed that this was written rather neatly, as if someone had taken great care when documenting the disclaimer. He was puzzled then to read what was written beneath. Another disclaimer, but this piece of text looked sloppy and angry.

_Do not read this. These are my personal, embarrassing thoughts, meant for my eyes only. Please don't go any further…_

Intrigued, Lewis gently closed the journal, his face tight and his mind reeling. Overwhelmed with conflicting thoughts, Lewis outweighed the pros and cons of the situation, trying to bring himself to a reasonable conclusion on what to do.

Here in his hands he held sensitive information (according to the disclaimer) that belonged to none other than his future son. Somewhere in the back of his mind, alarm bells were going off. He knew he shouldn't read it, but the temptation was too great.

What other opportunity would he have to learn more about the life of his future family?

As bad of an idea as it could've been, Lewis found himself really, really wanting to read the journal. What's the worst that could happen anyway? Wilbur might come back looking for it, and if Lewis confessed that he'd read it, so what if he became a little upset? It wasn't like there was going to be anything all that bad in this thing.

'Besides, I _am _his dad after all. Doesn't that give me the right to do anything with my son's things?'

With this thought in mind, Lewis reassured himself that it really wouldn't be all that bad to take a little peek… And anyway, who was going to stop him?

Just as Lewis opened the cover again, his mother called him down for dinner. Lewis jumped a little, not realizing how absorbed he had been in his own thoughts until something had interrupted them. With some embarrassment at his own skittishness, Lewis slid the journal under his pillow and leapt to the floor, sliding a little on the slick wood.

Lewis threw one more glance in the direction of his bed before turning and hurrying down to have dinner with his family.

'Right,' his conscious told him, 'you wouldn't want to snoop through someone's private diary on an empty stomach now, would you?'

Lewis pretended not to hear.

* * *

_Nobody understands. From the outside, everything looks normal. There's always talk about how great the Robinsons are. They must be the luckiest family in Todayland._

_We're not._

_It's like they say, don't judge a book by it's cover. While that's such a horrible cliche, it's very true. The cover of the Robinson family must look great, huh? But if you look further, and read the words on the pages, and the things between the lines, we're more than just a pretty picture. _

_There's always yelling. I never really noticed before, but recently, it's gotten worse. Maybe dad's stressed because of that big conference he has coming up. Maybe mom's stressed because dad is stressed. Whatever the cause, it's affecting everyone._

_And by everyone, I mean me._

_The rest of the family knows when to back off, so most of the drama is just between me, mom and dad, but it gets even more irritating when others chime in and try to help. Like earlier. Dad asked about a bad grade I got on a test, and when I'd snapped at him, Lucille had butted in and tried to scold me for being "disrespectful..."_

"_Sorry that not everyone can be as smart as you!" I'd yelled at Dad._

_It was true, and I was glad I said it, but afterwards everyone around had given me these weird looks that were mixed somewhere in between confusion and disappointment. Mom just looked pissed._

_Honestly, I don't care. I say what I want nowadays, because it's not like anyone has anytime for me. Lately, when I do something dad doesn't like, he just pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs loudly and closes his eyes, then turns around and ignores me. _

_I've been getting away with a lot more lately. _

_For instance, I let a curse word slip by the other day when I was arguing with mom, and she gave me that death look of hers. I'd hid on the roof like usual, and waited for her to come and scold me, but she never came. When I eventually came around again, I don't even think she remembered what I said, let alone noticed that I was missing…_

_I sometimes wonder when the family became so...distant._

* * *

Lewis decided that taking a peek wasn't that big of a deal. He'd eaten his dinner and returned to his room, only to plop himself on his bed and open up Wilbur's journal. He'd been a bit hesitant to do so at first, but now he was just plain curious. Reading about his future self and family was rather intriguing.

Seeing as this obviously wasn't killing anybody (figuratively and literally…) Lewis found himself turning the page and reading on.

* * *

_Dad spends way too much time on that stupid time machine of his. Doesn't he realize it won't kill him to at least spend a little time with me? Or mom for that matter… she's getting a little irritated too I think. _

_Dad and I have always been pretty close. That's why I just don't understand him now. He's been so different lately. He doesn't even notice that I disappear in my room for hours on end. Neither does mom. They call for dinner, and that's it. _

_Carl came and asked me what was wrong. I guess I didn't realize that I'd been staring at the wall blankly for so long, but when I'd tried to move, my body was sore from lack of movement. That was rather unusual for me. Until recently, I'd always busied myself with something in some way._

_He told me to stop moping around, and it bothered me to hear for some reason._

"_I'm not moping around," I'd insisted, but I found it hard to believe myself even. Maybe I was, but there wasn't much else I could do. I'd become increasingly more bored over these past few months, even to the point where I'd apparently resorted to staring at walls. 7th grade was painfully uneventful, and besides light homework, there was nothing else I could think of to occupy my time. _

_I could tell that Carl missed spending time with me, even if he didn't directly say so. _

_Is it so bad that I just want to be alone sometimes?_

* * *

Lewis was amused to see that the time machine had yet to be invented, and therefore Wilbur had yet to meet the younger version of his dad. From his judgement, it would be soon though. Wilbur was in the 7th grade, and that meant he was either 12 or 13.

A few months ago, when Lewis's life had been forever changed by the pointy-haired kid, he'd been 13. Therefore, Lewis expected to read something about time travel sometime soon.

However, as he looked at the next page, Lewis was a little disappointed and somewhat confused to see that this entry looked different from the first two. Instead of little excerpts of thoughts, this text looked more like a story.

Lewis pursed his lips in thought as his eyes read the first line of writing.

* * *

_Does the torment never end?_

_I was already having a bad morning. Dad and I fought the whole way to school, and when I'd gotten out of the hovercar angrily, I didn't even notice that it was pouring. Well great, it only added to my day._

_Between the run from the parking lot to the school, I'd managed to get myself completely soaked, ruining my hair and clothes in the process. As soon as I'd gotten under the safe, dry roof of the school, the bell rang, and I had to run to class. I was trying my hardest not to slip on the soles of my wet shoes, but when I finally reached the door to my classroom, the final bell rang and I was late. _

_Biting my lip, I stumbled into class and stood in the doorway like an idiot. All eyes were on me and I found myself frozen, unable to move. The only sound was my heaving breathing, and the water that dripped from my face and hair and onto the floor. I was shivering and panting, the cold weight of my soaked clothes were chilling me to the bone._

_My teacher shook his head and me and called me to his desk. Numbly, I walked over to him with stiff legs, ignoring the stares that burned into my back. There were quiet whispers as the teacher wrote me a pass, then handed it to me with a tight frown. I stared down at it with shocked anger._

_Sweep._

_If you're late to class, you go to in-school suspension. There's no room for excuses, and there's no getting out until it's time for your next class. So instead of sitting in English class, which I actually thoroughly enjoyed, I was forced to sit alone in a plain, boring classroom, doing absolutely nothing._

_After shamefully walking out of class and heading down the hall to the detention room, I sat down at a desk in the back and sulked. The teacher who monitored the "bad kids" was seated behind her desk at the front of the room. She looked up and watched me when I entered, raising an eyebrow because I wasn't one of the "usuals." _

_I pretended not to noticed the look of pity she was giving me, as I sat with my arms wrapped around myself, shaking like crazy. I was freezing, and pissed off, overwhelmed with anger. _

_Tears of frustration kept coming to my eyes, but I stared at the top of my desk and clenched my teeth, willing them to go away. My wet hair kept falling down in my face, rain water mixing with my hair products and running down my cheeks and dripping onto the desk._

"_...Wilbur? Hellooo..?" _

_I was pulled from my thoughts as the teacher at the front called my name. I looked up to her with embarrassment, gnawing on my lower lip as she frowned at me. _

"_Bad morning?" _

_I was glad she understood, but I didn't answer, knowing that my appearance was pretty self-explanatory. _

_I ended up pulling out a journal and taking out my anger by scribbling frantically, knowing that the teacher was still watching me with interest. She looked concerned as the pages became soaked and crinkled, and soon I was just writing mindlessly with a dull pencil on a pile of wet pulp. _

_It occurred to me that I was suddenly anxious with the knowledge that the teacher was still staring at me. Like earlier, when the class had been staring, I realized I was trembling a little, and I felt dizzy. _

_Since when did I have anxiety issues? _

_I told myself to calm down, but it hardly did any good. I sat there, just staring at the ruined journal for the remainder of the class, waiting for the bell to ring. _

_Eventually, it did, but I was far from relieved._

_The teacher called me to the front. _

"_Wilbur, can you come here a minute?" _

_I didn't realize how scared I was until I heard my own heart, pounding in my chest. I slowly made my way to the front of the room, hearing all the other students in the room file out into the hall. I stood beside the desk of the teacher and stared at my shoes, glancing up when the she cleared her throat. _

_She looked mildly concerned for a moment, before she asked me what was going on. I mumbled something about having a shitty morning, at which she raised an eyebrow at._

"_I didn't think the son of Cornelius Robinson was capable of having anything but a good day." _

_This angered me, and I stared at her incredulously. Am I not human? Just because I'm the son of "the Father of the Future" doesn't mean that I don't have bad days every once in a while… In fact, I've recently been having more bad than good days…_

_I wanted to say all this, but I just stood there instead, grinding my teeth as I waited to be dismissed. Finally, she simply shook her head and gave me a small, reassuring smile. Then I left. _

_The rest of the day wasn't all that bad. Besides my damp, wrinkled clothes and my hideous hair, things were otherwise pretty much normal. _

_At the end of the day, as I stood waiting for Dad, I remembered our fight earlier, and I had to remind myself that I was mad at him._

_So when the hovercar finally pulled up to the curb, I tossed my stuff in the back, slid into the passenger seat, and slammed the door. Dad didn't say anything to me as I crossed my arms and stared out the windshield, anger returning as I recalled our fight from earlier. Sure it was probably over something stupid, but I wasn't about to let that stop me from being the first to apologize. _

_When we got home, I gathered my things and headed straight for my room, content to simply lock the door and lay on the top bunk of my bed, heavy metal music turned up so loud that I couldn't even hear my own raging thoughts._

_But that's ok. Like always, nobody bothered me…_

* * *

**Hey ya'll! Thanks for being so patient with this. Thanks to spring break, you can expect another chapter to shortly follow this one. :) See you then! **


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm sorry this is later than expected! Did you know that theatre takes up every moment of your free time? Due to 5 long months of rehearsals, I had absolutely no social life. My apologies. **

**But alas, here is the second chapter for you lovelies. Thanks for your patience and support! **

* * *

Lewis was mildly impressed with Wilbur's writing skills. It certainly wasn't the best he'd ever seen, but it was better than expected for 12 year old boy. He wondered why Wilbur never really came across as the writing type when he'd met him a year ago, but it certainly seemed like he had a hidden talent.

A yawn suddenly broke the lonely silence of his room, and it occurred to Lewis how exhausted he was. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was nearly midnight. He was puzzled to discover that he had lost track of time so easily.

The blonde was discouraged to remember that he had school in the morning, and as much as he wanted to continue reading, he knew it would be within his best interest to call it a night. Besides, he was uncharacteristically tired, and his bed suddenly seemed very warm and welcoming.

With another yawn, Lewis placed his glasses and the journal on the little table beside the bed. He grasped the blanket and pulled it over his head, tucking himself comfortably between the sheets. With a contented sigh, he reached over and switched off the lamp nearby, darkening the vast room. Lewis wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that his room was never completely dark. The light from the moon and stars above always provided a gentle glow, one of which could almost be described as bluish. Similarly, the light from the sun never ceased to brighten the room, thus Lewis had very few light fixtures available at his disposal.

Lewis rolled to one side and allowed his tired eyes to wander all about his bedroom, scanning the outlines and bulky silhouettes of his furniture and inventions. As much as he wanted to continue working on said inventions, Lewis had a feeling that most of his free time would dedicated to reading WIlbur's journal.

Wilbur's handwriting was quite small, and Lewis had observed earlier that nearly every page was filled. Yes, there was certainly a lot of material to read through. Lewis had been impossibly intrigued by the few pages he had read through, and now he actually felt eager to read more. Maybe he felt a little guilty invading on something so personal, but a voice in the back of his head reassured him that he had every right, and besides, it wasn't that big of a deal anyway.

"Ugh..!"

Lewis groaned in frustration as he rolled onto his back, tapping his knuckles against his temples.

'Why do I keep worrying about it? So what if Wilbur left his journal here, it's his own fault. I shouldn't feel guilty for just reading through it. And anyway, it's not even that bad. I'm just… researching. Yeah, researching the life of my future son, and current best friend. It's not like he has much to hide.'

Once again, conflicting thoughts invaded Lewis's mind. He knew it wasn't a big deal, but something in the back of his mind kept nagging at him, telling him that this was all a very bad idea.

'He obviously doesn't care about it that much if he left it here.'

Lewis smirked at this thought. Maybe it was unfair to say that much, but there was no denying the simple fact that the raven haired boy had been forgetful enough to leave it. That meant that Lewis had every right to read it.

Right?

While his heart was telling him otherwise, his mind was insisting that he was doing nothing wrong. He was simply gathering information. Yes, that was it. Nothing harmful there.

With this reassurance, Lewis shifted positions and tucked his blanket under his chin, staring blankly at the wall. He told himself once again that there was no harm in what he was doing…

* * *

Lewis awoke with the feeling that someone was watching him. He stayed still for a few tense moments, listening to the sound of his own breathing.

Although he was doing his best to convince himself that he was imagining things, it was clear that there was another presence in the room. The young Lewis felt his heart jump into his throat upon hearing a scuffling sound from somewhere by the foot of his bed, almost as if someone was dragging their feet along the wood floors.

After a few more moments of painful silence, Lewis gathered the courage to sit up. A cry caught in Lewis's throat as his eyes adjusted to the blackness.

A dark, silhouetted figure stood at the foot of the bed, the light of the moon barely offering enough light to see by. Nonetheless, it was blatantly obvious that _someone _was there.

Lewis opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Suddenly, a brief sensation of falling overcame Lewis, and with a gasp, he was jolted back into reality...

Lewis was immediately awaken from the nightmare that had somehow slipped it's way into his mind. The whole thing had seemed to vividly _real _that Lewis could have sworn he still felt that strange presence in his room.

His heart was still pounding in his chest, and he could hear his blood pumping in his ears, suddenly feeling very afraid of the silence.

The moon blinked at him from behind the glass enclosement of his ceiling, and as he gazed up at it and attempted to calm his nerves, he wondered briefly what his dream had meant.

As the teen seldom slept, it was even more rare for him to ever have any dreams. It was odd and frightening to Lewis to experience such a vivid one.

The more he thought about it, the more unsettled he became. It was another 3 hours before Lewis had to get ready for school, but restlessness had gotten its grip on him, and so he hesitantly pulled himself out of bed and crept to the open stairway at the other end of the room.

He felt rather shaken from the disturbing images that wouldn't erase themselves from his mind, so he figured a walk would do him some good.

After absentmindedly wandering into the kitchen, Lewis found himself craving some sort of refreshment. The light from the fridge washed over the kitchen tile as he pulled open the heavy door. He peered into it and found the gallon of milk. He poured himself a glass and sat at the table, sighing heavily as he took a long, refreshing sip.

Lewis jumped when a soft voice called him name from the doorway, and he turned to see a thankfully familiar figure standing in the doorway.

"Why are you up so early?"

Bud slowly made his way into the kitchen and sat down across from his adopted son, concern evident on his face as he awaited a reply.

Lewis bit his lip, unsure of how to answer. In his mind, explaining that he had a bad dream seemed rather...pathetic. Yes, he did have a dignity to keep.

"I just couldn't sleep…" He said lamely. It wasn't a complete lie. Technically, sleeping would not come easily to him now. Bud nodded in understanding and said nothing more, watching Lewis quietly as he sipped his milk.

"That friend of yours that was here a few days ago…" Bud said thoughtfully, "he was interesting. That youngster was certainly something."

Lewis nearly choked on his drink. He panicked a moment before he swallowed his milk and reminded himself to calm down. Nonchalantly, he replied, "Yeah, he's alright. Why do you bring him up?"

The question was conversational, harmless. Yet Lewis felt himself holding his breath in anticipation as he leaned forward slightly, fingers tapping his glass nervously.

"Oh, nothing in particular, I was just thinking about how you don't have many other friends over…" Bud continued in a thoughtful tone, oblivious to the fact that the comment stung.

"Goob still comes over once in a while!" Lewis said in his defense, frowning at the thought of his son from the future being his only 'friend.' Bud still spoke as if thinking out loud, although he still acknowledged Lewis's contributions to the conversation.

"I suppose that's true," he accepted with a nod, taking notice of Lewis's distraught features. He pursed his lips in thought. "What's bothering you, son?" He questioned.

Lewis snapped out of his trance and managed a small, somewhat reassuring smile. "Nothing, I'm fine." When it was clear that Bud wasn't buying his answer he excused himself by adding, "Just..tired."

Without looking up, Lewis could tell that Bud had quietly gotten up from the table and could hear him heading back to the hall, to go back to sleep no doubt. Lewis didn't blame him, and in fact envied the fact that he couldn't do the same.

No, it would be a while before he could manage to sleep again.

Finally tired of sitting at the lonely table, Lewis chugged another glass of milk and sauntered back up the stairs to his room. As shaken as he still was, being in a familiar environment was far more appealing. The light of dawn had barely brightened the sky, but the dark blue shades were far more comforting than the harsh, pitch black that had earlier been above him.

Hesitantly, Lewis crept across the floor of his room to his bed and sat on the edge of it, allowing his legs to dangles over the side as he rested his head in his hands. He wasn't sure why he was so bothered by the dream, but nonetheless, it still had a tight grip on his nerves.

Doing his best to shake his unease, Lewis retrieved Wilbur's journal and opened it to where he left off, hoping to at least take his mind off of his worries.

* * *

_Why does no one like me? _

_I'm not _that _weird. I mean, ok sure, my dad is the "Father of the Future" and everyone knows it. But that doesn't give anyone the right to treat me any differently; and it certainly doesn't give anyone the right to bully me…_

_The tormenting never stops. The teasing, the laughing.. That's the worst part. I can handle the physical stuff… I've become an expert at dodging food, pencils, paper airplanes, spit balls.. anything really. The tripping in the halls, the yanking on my backpack, the "accidental shoving," the pushing of my books off the desk… Yep, I can deal with that. _

_But… the worst part is the teasing. The names they call me, the stares, the laughter, the whispering… That's a little harder to overcome. And it shouldn't be, I know. It's just stupid kids. _

_I just don't get it! I never did anything to them. I figured they'd all get bored with it by now, and stop altogether at some point. _

_Even when this new kid came, Conner James. Everyone picked on him, and suddenly I could eat my lunch without having someone else's fall into it. But here's the weird thing. They got tired of picking on Conner after a week, and then they went right back to bullying, (who else?) Wilbur Robinson._

_Why? What am I doing wrong?_

_Are they right? Do I have "stupid hair?" Am I too skinny? Is it girly that I like to write in a journal? Is it unnatural that I don't like sports? Am I anti social because I don't have any friends? Am I dumb because I'm not as smart as my dad? Am I a mistake?_

_I can't think like this… It gives me bad thoughts. It makes me… I want to.. _

_I can't.._

_They aren't true. Carl says that they're lying because they're jealous of who I am. But who am I? A genius's son? Yeah, some title. I can't mooch off of my father's fame for the rest of my life. I need to do things on my own, but, I'm not sure what I'm good at._

_Like they say at school… maybe I am good for nothing… _

* * *

Lewis stared at the words on the page, a little unbelieving. Wilbur is...bullied? Tormented because of who he is as a person? It's just so…wrong. Lewis blinked and forced himself to close the journal, a strange stirring in his chest overcoming him.

Guilt.

All he felt for his soon-to-be son was _guilt. _

Because in the future, he'll be the one who's famous. He'll be the one to receive all the fame and glory while Wilbur gets the short end of the stick, being left to deal with jealous, bullying teenagers at school, who speak lies to a boy who really is special, all in his own way.

But if only he knew that. If it's true that he has no friends, then who does he have to build him up?

The realization hit Lewis like a train, as his chest tightened in pity.

"_Dad and I have always been pretty close. That's why I just don't understand him now."_

Do he and Wilbur really grow apart? Shouldn't he, as a father, be there to support his son? Apparently not… He thought this with a hint of disgust, in himself, for not being there when he should have been… There was no excuse. This was so wrong. He was at fault, and yet now, there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

**Hopefully I'll be motivated enough to supply you with another chapter soon!**

**Fear not, summer is just around the corner! (But I'm not going to make any promise that I might not be able to keep! Sorry about that… *cough cough*) **


	3. Chapter 3

Panicked was an understatement.

Wilbur Robinson was utterly delirious to find his little black journal missing. After all but destroying his room, and not finding it, it occurred to Wilbur that someone could have stolen it. And worse yet, read it. The thought made his stomach turn over.

No. No no no no NO.

"This can't be happening…" He muttered, grasping his thick black hair in fistfulls. He tugged hard at it, relishing the feeling of the pull on his scalp. He gritted his teeth and spun around the room for the millionth time, hoping that his journal would somehow appear before his eyes.

"Ok, ok, calm down," Wilbur murmured to himself, trying to calm his pounding heart. His skull had began to develop a dull ache, but that didn't stop him from tugging even harder on his hair. "Shit, shit... oh this is bad. Wait, cool it, no one stole it, it's here…somewhere.."

His journal...it had EVERYTHING. Every thought. Every experience. All that had happened to him in the past few years was written down word for word, personally, in something as vulnerable as a notebook. How could he have been so naive? If someone read it, they would know everything. Every dark secret, every painful thought. It was too much to bear thinking about.

His musings became incoherent as he dropped to his knees and looked under the bed again. No luck. Just as he felt his breathing begin to quicken, the door to his room flew open.

"Hey Wil- ...what are you doing?"

Wilbur stopped and spun around, still crouched on his hands and knees. He stared at Carl wide-eyed, looking slightly hysterically, as he tried to get a grip. Standing was a bit of a challenge, as he was nauseous with fear, but when he was back on his feet, it took all his willpower to actually look Carl in the optics.

"I-, I was just looking for something that I, uh, misplaced." Wilbur said dismissively, choosing to ignore the "not-buying-it" look he was getting from the robot. Carl stepped toward the teen and fixed him with a serious glare.

"Hey...Wilbur, have you been-," There was a pregnant pause, as if Carl was choosing his next words carefully.

"What!? No! I," his voice broke as he jumped to defend himself, ..."no. It's not that, ok?"

Carl did not look convinced. The doubtful glare he was sending Wilbur only made his stomach heave in guilt. "It's not what you think, alright?!" He exclaimed, a little louder than necessary. Carl held his servos up in surrender.

"Okay, okay, I'm just checking. I worry about you little buddy, so let me know if I can help." He stepped forward and placed a hand on Wilbur's shoulder, only to have it shrugged off immediately.

"I don't see why you should. Don't bother. Nobody else does." Wilbur muttered quietly, turning away from Carl. Unable to read his expression, Carl answered carefully and hesitantly, worry evident in his tone.

"Don't think like that. You know that isn't true."

Wilbur didn't reply. Instead, he waited for Carl to leave before he sat on the edge of his bed and cradled his head in his hands, trying to get his anxiety under control.

He had a very bad feeling about this.

* * *

School was a disaster for Lewis.

As hard as he tried, he could not get his mind off of Wilbur and the journal. He wondered what Wilbur was doing now, years in the future. Was he too sitting in a boring classroom? Was he looking for his lost journal? Guilt was still weighing him down throughout the whole day, and despite his effort to focus on school, he simply couldn't.

"Well Lewis?"

Great. How predictable.

"I'm sorry sir, i wasn't paying attention." He admitted, ignoring the snickers somewhere off to his left. His teacher had become particularly annoyed with him for not paying attention, and so he was promptly scolded and told to get to work on the quiz they were given. Unfortunately, it seemed that even embarrassment wasn't enough to get him to focus this time. He passed the quiz with a low C.

On Lewis's walk home, Goob-his old roommate from the orphanage-caught up with him.

"Hey Lewis, what's up? You don't seem yourself."

Lewis sighed and shouldered his backpack, glancing sideways at the short, dark-haired boy.

"Yeah, there's uh...there's been a lot on my mind." He replied, hoping it was convincing enough.

"Right, well, you could've just said you didn't want to tell me." Goob said with a laugh, ever the mind-reader. Despite the kid's usual carefree attitude, he was surprisingly good at deciphering people's emotions.

Lewis laughed, rubbing his neck sheepishly. "Sorry Goob, it's not like that, I just don't think it's best to share."

"Is it about the future?"

Oh, right. Lewis had conveniently forgotten that he'd told Goob all about the Robinsons, and Wilbur's occasional visits. Wilbur and Goob had actually met once…

"Yeah, actually.." He said slowly, but Goob sent a grin his way and blew a huge bubble with his gum. "It's cool, that's your business anyway."

Lewis couldn't tell if the remark was genuine or not, and although he suspected that his friend was actually offended by being kept in the dark, he decided to change the subject all the same.

"So how's baseball going, then?"

Goob frowned as they turned the corner, growing closer to the orphanage. Lucille was always parked outside waiting, knowing that after school, Lewis usually liked to walk Goob home or visit Mildred. Lewis spotted his familiar blue car up ahead, and suddenly felt eager to go home and learn more about Wilbur's life, via stolen journal.

"Good, I guess." It took Lewis a moment to remember that he had asked Goob a question, and even longer to actually process his answer. "Why not just good?"

Goob shrugged, pulling a smirk as he looked over at the blonde. "The season has just been really sucky. We're six and one right now.."

"Six wins?"

"No, losses."

"Oh that's too bad." He didn't know what else to say to him, so he looked down and kicked at a rock on the sidewalk. The pair walked in silence the rest of the block, until they came to the entrance. Goob turned to Lewis and said a quick goodbye, in which Lewis eagerly returned. Without another word, Lewis hopped into the passenger side of the waiting car and greeted Lucille.

"How was school?" She asked with a smile, looking at her adopted son as he clicked his seatbelt into place. "Okay." He didn't mention the C on his quiz, but the guilt was eating away at his gut. He hoped he would never have to tell his parents about it, although it was bound to come up at some point.

Lucille didn't ask him anything else on the subject, and the rest of the ride home proceeded in silence. As soon as the car stopped outside of the Robinson household, Lewis shot out of the car and ran up the stairs, shouting something about having homework. He tossed his backpack on the floor and immediately retrieved the journal. Plopping himself on his bed, he eagerly opened the journal and began to read…

* * *

_My report card came today. Dad yelled. Mom cried. It's not even that big of a deal. Solid D's is actually improvement for me._

_But of course, it's never good enough. _

_I'm sorry that I'm not as good as my father. Sorry that I'm not a genius capable to creating the entire future. I'm sorry that I can't teach amphibians how to play instruments. _

_Sorry sorry sorry…._

_That's all I said. That's all I said as my father shouted at me, and when my mother cried and told me that I just wasn't trying. They're wrong! I am trying. I'm trying so, so hard to just be good enough for them, even though I know I never will be. I'm a screw up, just like I overheard the Father of the Future tell his own father, Bud. Grandpa came to my defense, and said that being a teenager is hard. _

_But he's wrong too._

_What's hard is being the son of someone whose legacy will always be the noose around your neck. It's hard knowing the only way to get rid of that legacy is to jump off of the chair that's holding you up, and keeping you from being strangled to death._

_But even then, the legacy will never go away, because your gravestone will have his name on it. Everyone will stand above it and think, 'why did he do it? He had everything. I sure wouldn't have done it if my dad was the Father of the Future. Why would a Robinson do something so utterly stupid?'_

_But it's fine with me, because no one will ever understand. They simply won't, and that's honestly ok with me. I can handle this alone… At least, I think I can. But then, how come when dad finished yelling, and mom finished giving me that burning glare of disappointment, I went up to my room, and I cried? How come I couldn't just shrug it off like everything else I had to deal with?_

_This battle is getting harder and harder to fight alone. Things are starting to get to me. Words dig into my skin like angry knifes, and I can't let them go unless I let those knives cut just a little bit deeper. It's then that I learn to need the pain. I need the reminder that I'm worthless, and that I will never live up to that damn legacy. And what's the point anyway? Because Wilbur Robinson is a useless screw up, and yeah Bud, how did he turn out so bad?_

_But… on top of everything, I'm confused. I'm so damn confused. I have to be sick in the head, because, wait a minute, this doesn't make sense…_

_If they're the ones saying the words…why am I the one holding the knife? _

* * *

_I got jumped today. It wasn't that big of a deal though, they only left me with a black eye and a few other bruises… No one really noticed (mostly because I hid out in my room the whole time) except for, of course, Carl. He looked outraged to see that someone had laid a hand on his 'little buddy.' I wouldn't admit that I appreciated his concern, but no, really Carl, I'm fine. _

* * *

_Mom said I looked depressed. _

_It was at dinner, a week after I got beat up. The sad thing about that was, there wasn't even really a reason for it anyway. The kids just tripped me and it escalated from there. Maybe I deserved it. After all, I did carry around a 'diary' and I did have a dumb haircut. _

_I smiled and asked her what she meant. She observed that I hardly left my room, never ate much, barely smiled, and never talked to her and dad anymore. I didn't have much to say in return. Ignoring Carl who was staring at me from across the room, and Mom who was staring as well, I kindly asked Uncle Art to pass the gravy._

_It was an accident… The first time at least. Well, kind of. I mean, I meant to do it, but then when I tried to stop, I couldn't. Thoughts were flying through my mind, voices were whispering and then screaming and it just had to stop… It's disgusting.. I'm disgusting. Why did it have to go this far? _

_I've been clean for awhile now, and I'm trying to keep it that way. I get urges, but I try to distract myself as best I can. It's hard sometimes. _

_Earlier, I heard Mom and Dad yelling. I heard my name more than once. It's times like that when I wonder if I'm even worth the effort._

* * *

Lewis had had enough. With a surge of anger, he aggressively shoved the journal under his pillow and ran his hands through his messy hair. How could Wilbur be such a troubled kid? Bullies? Bad grades? It didn't make sense. The cheerful little scamp he met not too long ago was not the same person that was writing in this journal. It couldn't be! There was no way that Wilbur had actually…

"Lewis?"

Nearly jumping out of his skin at the sudden appearance of Lucille, Lewis looked up and pulled a fake smile, ignoring his racing heart and guilty conscious. "Mom?" He replied, the word still somehow unfamiliar on his lips.

"Are you okay honey?" She asked, sitting beside him carefully on the mattress. Part of Lewis wanted to be worried given the fact that she was mere inches from the journal, but the other part of him knew that he was just being paranoid.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Lucille replied, tone supportive yet worried.

"Let's say, I have this friend, who's really struggling. We're talking, failing classes, and bullying, and other things... What would," he paused to take a deep breath, wording his inquiry carefully. "How could I help him?"

Lucille smiled and placed a hand on his knee, proud that her son had such a kind heart. "You could always talk to him about it, that's an easy first step."

Lewis sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. "That's the thing. I can't, because he's somewhere far away. Like, really far away."

"Oh." Lucille frowned, trying to understand what he was getting at. "Is there any way for you to communicate with him, and let him know that you're there for him during his hard times?"

Lewis's reply was a scoff and a shake of his head, upset that there was really no way to talk to his future son unless he came to him. "I guess its hopeless."

Confused, but supportive, Lucille pat Lewis on the back and stood up, looking down at him with a fond smile. "You'll figure it out, son. You're smart. Besides, there's always hope."

Lewis blinked, watching as she left the room. As soon as he was certain she had gone, he retrieved the journal and opened it to the first page. Grabbing a pen and placing the tip on the inside of the front cover, he wrote in black, bold letters:

**_There's always hope..._**

* * *

**Wow sorry this short update took me so long. I'm working on being more consistent, don't worry. There's an Avenger's fanfiction that's been taking up all my time, so if you're interested in that, I'm hoping to have it up soon.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to all the wonderful reviewers who keep me motivated! (And thank you Dylan for your kind review, since I can't PM you)**

* * *

Lewis had scanned the next dozen of pages and found them all the be nearly the same. Bad days at school and home, dark thoughts, bullying, confusion. It was getting frustrating. Not a single page contained anything remotely happy. There was one deceiving entry that mentioned Wilbur's 13th birthday, but Cornelius had not been able to get off work and show up to it.

Lewis cursed his future self for being so inconsiderate and uncaring. His older self should have known about Wilbur's struggles. After all, if he was reading the journal now, as a kid, shouldn't that mean he should remember it in the future?

Apparently not, because not once did Wilbur mention his father trying to help him. In fact, Cornelius seemed to be a big part of the problem. Wilbur was being neglected, and mistreated, and it just wasn't fair.

One particular page caught Lewis's attention. A smile graced his lips as he skimmed the words on, wondering if things might've gotten better for Wilbur.

Little did he know they would get much, much worse.

* * *

_How could I be so stupid?! _

_I left the garage door open._

_Maybe it was an honest mistake, but it's not like I could I explain that to Mom and Dad._

_Of course the one time it happened, someone just had to steal possibly the most important invention of my dad's. The time machine. And it just haaad to be the blue one too. _

_I couldn't go to my dad with my dilemma, so maybe time travel was my next best option. The red one was still there. _

_After snooping around in Dad's filing cabinets, a newspaper from 2007 revealed that the science fair was the answer to my problems. It was where he earned his fame with his first working invention. The memory scanner. _

_If I could pull it off, the guy who stole the time machine wouldn't get his hands on the invention if I warned Lewis about it (that's what Dad was called when he was younger)._

_My plan was foolproof. Convince him to keep the memory scanner safe from the guy with the bowler hat. That's basically all I had in mind, because it's all I could guess the time-machine-stealing-creepo was after. _

_Things spiraled out of control before I could stop them. _

_The bowler hat guy all but destroyed Lewis's invention and with it, his confidence in inventing. It took a lot more than expected to convince him to try inventing again and when he did, it didn't turn out so well anyway._

_Before I knew it, the second time machine was broken too, and the bowler hat guy was still on the loose. _

_Again, things went from bad to worse as a dinosaur attacked, Mom found out the truth about Lewis, and then Lewis went with the bowler hat guy to who-knows-where. Luckily, Carl and I found him at the old orphanage, and then we stole back Lewis and the memory scanner, heading home thinking that all our problems were solved. _

_Once again, I was wrong. _

_I stopped existing. The bowler hat guy took the invention, and disabled Carl, and then, everything went to hell. The future changed, and with it, those who existed in it. _

_The skin on my body began to tingle and sting, and before I knew it, I was watching my arms disintegrate into dust. I stared at Lewis in disbelief as it all happened so quickly. I managed to tell Lewis that it was up to him to fix things, because I was the screwup, and I'd already messed up enough. He still believed that he couldn't, but as a burning sensation overcame me, I screamed his name and watched everything fade around me._

_It was dark, and cold, and it was as if I was aware of everything going on, but at the same time, I had absolutely no clue where I was. There was whispering voices, and I felt cold chills as if something was slowly clawing it's way into my bones. I was being torn apart by the fabrics of the universe, slowly, agonizingly, and bit by bit._

_My screams made no sound, and soon there was nothing. It was like awakening from a deep, dreamless sleep. I felt like I missed so much, but when I slowly began to regain feeling, I realized somehow that it wasn't as long as I thought. _

_Lewis had done it. He'd fixed everything like I knew he would, and I was back on the ground, standing on my own two feet, and wiggling my own fingers._

_The bowler hat guy was there. I beat him up, and got scolded by Lewis. Thanks to me, the bowler hat guy (apparently named Goob) was gone, and I'd lost a chance to do some good in the world. Lewis looked so disappointed. _

_I took Lewis back to see his mom, like I promised. Did I mention that? I lied to him, and then I tried to fix the mistake. _

_He didn't confront his mom, but he knocked on the door to the orphanage and retreated back to the time machine, where I was watching the whole thing. It's hard to believe that after everything he went through for her, he didn't even look at her face. _

_Later, when I dropped him off back in his own time period, he explained it was because he already had a family, which I guess made sense. But still, I wonder sometimes if he made the right decision._

_I thought the whole mess would be over. It's not._

_The dreams that haunt me are painful and agonizing. It's like I'm in that void again; not existing._

_There's whispering and clawing and cold darkness. Carl says I've woken myself up from screaming, but I don't remember that. I just remember the feeling of being...gone._

_It gets bad sometimes, when I wake up sweaty and nauseous. Carl said that it's normal to experience post-traumatic stress after a scarring experience, but I think I'm just getting what I deserve._

* * *

Lewis dreamt that night as well.

It was the same feeling as before, as if he was being watched. Sure enough, the same ghostly, dark figure stood at the foot of his bed, but this time, it was more vivid.

Lewis could make out texture and limbs, and it looked as though the figure wore a cloak. Upon further studying the face, he found it to be blank, except for a smooth, white mask, with two black, droopy smudges where the eyes would be, and a thin tilted line that formed a tragic frown.

More curious than startled, Lewis slipped on his glasses and blinked, but as soon as he did, the figure was gone...

Lewis risked bringing the journal to school if only to read as much of it as possible. He discovered soon that the entire experience they shared must have really screwed Wilbur up more than he assumed.

The entries got sloppier and shorter. Tidbits of dreams and trauma decorated the pages, and often angry scribbles covered up some of the lines. Disturbing phrases like 'psycho,' 'SHUT UP!,' and 'nobody believes me' were plastered at the tops of pages, followed by indecipherable text and scribbles.

To say that it scared Lewis was a terrible understatement.

It went on for awhile, before finally, the pages looked normal again. The date was neatly printed at the top, and then there were normal-sized entries in legible handwriting. Lewis sighed with relief, figuring that the worst of it had passed for Wilbur, and he was able to rationally gather his thoughts once again.

Sure enough, the first thing he mentioned was how he no longer had haunting dreams, and whispering voices, and terrible burning urges to do something regrettable. Puzzling enough, he said that he gave in more than a few times, but to what, Lewis did not know.

Lewis was in the last class of the day, luckily, but he knew his teacher was stricter than most, and so he didn't risk bringing out the journal.

When the bell rang, Lewis was quick to leave the building and walk to the orphanage, not even bothering to wait for Goob.

His mother's car was parked and waiting as always, and Lewis hastily climbed in the passenger side and greeted her, eager to get home to continue reading. The teen's worry for his future son had drastically increased, and the more he knew about his situation, the better he would feel. At least, that's what he hoped.

As soon as he was safely in his room and seated on his bed, Lewis opened the journal eagerly.

* * *

_There's a policy in our gym class where you aren't allowed to wear jackets or any long-sleeved articles of clothing. Nobody really knows why this is, but you're expected to change out or you'll get a zero for the day. It doesn't seem like a big deal, but it's not worth it._

_I didn't consider this, or think it through, because on the day we had gym, I didn't plan ahead._

_Coach made me take it off. The black hoodie I'd been wearing nearly all spring was going to have to stay on the side lines while I was humiliated during gym. _

_Maybe no one would notice..._

_As soon as I pulled the hoodie off, all eyes were on the bandages. _

_Not that I expected otherwise, but part of me was saying that it was really just my anxiety, and no, not everyone was staring, but dammit I'm sure that they really were. They were _staring_. _

_After what felt like hours of standing there, with anxiety gnawing at my gut, I shamefully glanced down at my arms and knew that I was done for. The cloth white bandages wrapped around my wrists had slipped down, and everyone could see them. All the evidence of the night before._

_Somebody said something loudly. I didn't hear it at first, but then there were gasps and whispers, and suddenly everyone was repeating it. _

_"Wilbur cuts...Wilbur cut himself.."_

_It was too late now. Gym class had come to a halt as everyone stared. I couldn't even bring myself to look down and readjust the bandages to hide the dark, red cuts that decorated the insides of my wrists. Everyone knew._

_Summoning the little dignity I had left, I walked shamefully up to the coach and asked in a strained voice if I could use the restroom. His pitying and angry expression gave me my answer, and after grabbing my jacket and ducking my head low, I bolted out of the gym and ran to the nearest bathroom._

_I didn't even lock the stall behind me as I pressed my back to the cold metal door and tried to focus on breathing. I was freaking out and falling apart, my chest rising and falling rapidly as I tried to shake the feeling of being suffocated. I leaned forward and placed my hands on my knees, choking out sobs as I felt ready to hurl. _

_Falling to my knees, I gripped the edges of the toilet and started heaving, tears streaming down my face as I tried to just keep _breathing_. Finally, I threw up, and when I'd finished, I curled into a ball on the dirty tile and cried. _

_The door to the stall had cracked open, and though I was pressing my face into my balled-up hoodie, I managed to spot a few boys trying to peak into and under the stall, their wide, curious eyes trying to get a look at the show..._

_Someone must have eventually gotten the nurse, because she was suddenly shooing the boys out of the bathroom and sitting beside me, snapping on some rubber gloves as she helped me sit up. She wiped the vomit from my lips because apparently I hadn't even thought to do that myself, and through my embarrassment and sobs, I managed to hear her instruct me to stand up and start walking to her office. _

_She placed a guiding hand on my back and led me down the corridor, straight to the front of the school where her office was. She told the fascinated onlookers in the halls to go back to class in a harsh and serious tone that I had never heard the kind school nurse use before._

_She locked the door to her office when we got there and helped me sit on the pathetic excuse for an examination table. It was just the two of us, and I figured at that point that I'd humiliated myself enough for one day, so I desperately tried to get a grip, taking deep breaths for air to try and stop crying. _

_The nurse gave me time to compose myself, but she sat in a chair nearby, watching me sympathetically and thoughtfully as I slowed my crying to occasional sniffles. Eventually, she pulled her chair up in front of me and stared at me long and hard, making me look away in embarrassment because I was an absolute wreck._

_"Wilbur honey, let me see..."_

_She used that soft voice of hers as she reached for me hands, but I pulled back and stuffed them in my pockets, angry suddenly. If I let her see, she would be invading on something private. She wasn't allowed to see me when I was vulnerable, so I turned away from her and tossed a dirty glare over my shoulder. _

_"I can't help you if you don't let me see."_

_"I don't want help!" I shot back, feeling only a little bit of guilt. I could tell that she really did want to be helpful, but I wanted to fight this alone. No one could do anything to change what had already been done. _

_"I need to see, ok?" She said gently, coming forward and pushing the sleeves of my jacket up to my forearms. I gnawed on my lip as I allowed her to survey the damage, my eyes unable to meet hers._

_"Wilbur..." It hurt the way she said it. It sounded like mom... It sounded disappointed._

_"Do they hurt?"_

_"They're supposed to."_

_"Why do you say that?"_

_I shook my head and ignored her question, because I'd already said too much, and her sad curious eyes just kept staring and it made me edgy. _

_She stood up and sighed, shaking her head as she went to her counter and turned her back, so that I couldn't see what she was doing. _

_"Are things going ok at home?"_

_I wanted to laugh, because no shit lady, did it look like things were ok? _

_"It's normal to throw off your immune system if you're under a lot of stress. Would you say that you're stressed Wilbur?"_

_I stared at the ponytail on the top of her head and tried to count the number of rubber bands that kept it together. My musings were interrupted when she turned around and faced me. _

_"Do you suffer from anxiety maybe? How come I found you in the bathroom like that..?"_

_"I don't have-," I stopped, because denial was the wrong approach. Maybe I did have an anxiety problem. I'm sure I did, because why else would I be here right now? "I don't know.. I think I might, I mean... maybe.."_

_She nodded and came over to me with a thermometer. She stuck it in my ear and frowned at whatever it said. She didn't say anything, but she scribbled something down on a form and then went back to the cabinet, retrieving what I later learned was a pill. _

_"Take this, it helps with the nausea and pain."_

_"How did you know that I'm-"_

_"It's a side effect of severe stress and anxiety, remember? And you look terrible anyway, I would be surprised if you got sick again." _

_I shook my head in disbelief at how blunt she was being, but it was better than beating around the bush I supposed. _

_The next thing I knew, she was putting some kind of ointment on my cuts and wrapping them in clean bandages. I started to tell her that she didn't have to do that, but she insisted that it was her job, and it was the least she could do. _

_I didn't say anything more after she was done, and instead I settled for staring at the floor and swinging my legs back and forth, nervousness twisting my insides into knots. _

_After a few tense moments of silence, the nurse stood and went to her phone and picked it up to start dialing. Before I could panic and ask what she was doing, she sighed and said, "I need to call your parents. They need to know about this incident and be aware of your condition."_

_"No!" I cried, and before I could even think, I was running to her side and begging her to change her mind, telling her that she couldn't tell them, because they didn't need to know, and I was fine!_

_She stood there, mid-dial, giving me this pitying stare, ready to call home and tell Mr. and Mrs. Robinson that their son was a cutter, and here he was having a breakdown, and they needed to come get him right away. _

_"I'd rather die than have them know about this!" I blurted without thinking._

_That's when she slammed the phone down, turned to me with an unreadable expression, and told me to go lay down until the end of the day. It was fine with me, so I did. _

_I laid there for the next hour, dozing off from time to time as I waited for the bell to ring, all the while wondering just how I would ever be able to show my face at school again._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Fear not! I have finally written another chapter! So sorry that this literally took more than a year. I've been hella hella busy. Oh and I joined the Army, so there's that. But I tried my best to give all you fans an update for this piece of shit story. :) Enjoy.**

Lewis had no idea what to think. He stared for awhile at the pages of Wilbur's journal, reading the words over a few times. He examined the places on the page where the paper was crinkled and distorted, where tears had once dried.

Lewis's heart ached for the kid, as his mind provided him with an image of Wilbur, crying as he accounted an awful day and wrote it in black ink on the yellowed pages.

He wanted to read more, but a heavy despair was weighing down his chest, and it was easier to sit in shock rather than continue reading. Sick with worry and dread, Lewis closed the journal and tossed it aside.

Had he known what he was getting into, Lewis would have never opened the journal to begin with. Above all else, the fact that Wilbur self-harmed terrified Lewis. How was it possible that he hadn't noticed?

Cradling his head in his hands, Lewis racked his brain for some way that he could help Wilbur, or at least return his journal. He vowed to not read anymore- he wasn't really sure if he'd be able to handle it.

* * *

Wilbur had come to realize that his journal was nowhere in the house. As much as he wanted to remain hopeful, he figured one of two things could have happened. Either he had lost it at school, or someone in his family could've gotten ahold of it and was keeping it somewhere. He wasn't sure which he preferred.

Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred at school all week, and nobody in the family was treating him differently. He was beginning to wonder what the hell was going on.

Taking a risk, he asked Carl, who knew exactly what he was talking about but had not seen it. Deciding that it might as well be a lost cause, Wilbur pulled out a stack of paper and a pen and began to write, because journal or no journal, writing was the only way he coped with stress. Before he could even begin to write, a knock on his closed bedroom door made him jump.

"Wilbur, we need to leave now." His mother's voice informed him through the door. Wilbur sucked in a breath, realizing that he'd forgotten that it was Thursday night. He hurriedly shoved the papers in his desk and went to the door. Franny had, he assumed, gone to wait for him in the family's flying car, as she was no longer outside of his door as she had previously been, so Wilbur made his way to the garage and found his theory to be correct. He climbed in the passenger seat and buckled in, crossing his arms as Franny started the car and pulled out of the driveway.

There was silence for awhile before she finally looked at him and attempted to start causal conversation. She asked first how school was and then if he had any plans with any friends for the weekend. The answer was always no, but she always asked anyway.

The rest of the ride consisted of tense silence, but Wilbur paid it no mind as they pulled up in front of a plain looking building with barred windows and a rusted, crooked sign hanging on one nail above the door. Wilbur felt his lips tighten in a frown as Franny patted him lightly on the shoulder.

"I'll see you in an hour," She said as cheerfully as she could, but her pained expression betrayed her hopeful tone and optimistic words.

Wilbur climbed out silently and watched as she waved and pulled away. He turned to look at the building and sighed before trudging up the worn stone steps and pushing open the heavy, creaking door.

For a support group, the venue wasn't very comforting.

Down a short flight of stairs, Wilbur found himself in an all-too familiar setting. The circle of chairs in the middle of the room was already half full of kids, and over by the refreshment table, another handful of teens was gathered, laughing and chatting like close friends. He supposed some of them were, although he himself had never actually been able to open up to them.

3 months, he thought. 3 months and not once have I told anybody here what I'm going through. This is supposed to be an outlet, but all I ever feel is out of place.

"Hey Will!" Someone hollered from the table of snacks, a cookie shoved halfway in his mouth. Wilbur cringed but forced a smile as he sauntered over to his side.

"You know I hate being called that. It's Wilbur." He muttered as he took a cup of water from the table, savoring the icy cold in his throat.

The kid, a scrawny redhead with a big mouth, both figuratively and literally, tossed an arm around Wilbur's shoulders and gave him a grin, appearing to not mind the chocolate that was smeared on his lips.

"I'm just messing around, c'mon," he chuckled, offering Wilbur a cookie with his other greasy hand. Wilbur shrugged away from his grasp and gathered his bearings. The kid was lanky but deceptively strong. Before he could become irritated with the kid's usual but nonetheless annoying antics, the adult leader called for everyone's attention and announced that the session was about to begin.

Wilbur settled into the hard, plastic blue chairs and attempted to make himself comfortable for the next hour. It never worked, so today he didn't expect any less.

"Hey guys, good to have you back! How was everyone's week?"

The leader's name was Josh and he was way, way WAY too perky for Wilbur's liking. His cheerfulness, boisterous voice and enthusiastic movements were frustrating, as Wilbur usually prefered to stare at the flickering florescent lights that hung a few inches from the ceiling and watch them sway back and forth idly whilst counting the minutes until he could leave.

It was exactly what he was doing when Josh asked him to share something good that he had done that week, and Wilbur was jolted back to reality to find everyone staring at him expectantly. As much as he hated talking at group, he knew if he didn't answer the simple question, they would never leave him alone.

"Um," he cleared his throat, and considered lying, but under so much pressure, his brain could only provide him with the truth. "I wrote a little."

Josh perked up, eager to have finally gotten something out of him. "Oh, what do you write about?"

Wilbur shrugged, looking away uncomfortably. "Not much. Just how I'm feeling."

Josh looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but he nodded with a smile and moved on. Wilbur exhaled in relief, feeling his heart pounding in his chest rather loudly. He wondered briefly when his anxiety had gotten so bad, but he had to push the thought away and close his eyes against the suddenly too-bright lights.

Around him, the conversations went on. Someone had tried suicide (again) yesterday, and upon confessing this, they were asked by Josh how they're feeling today. "Ok, I guess," the kid had replied. Wilbur resisted the urge to laugh. What a bunch of bullshit. They'd tried to take their life less than 24 hours ago, and yet today they were "ok." And Josh seemed completely satisfied with the answer and not at all alarmed that the kid he was talking to could have been dead.

"Wilbur, is there something you wanted to add?"

Upon opening his eyes, Wilbur found all eyes on him again, this time the stares holding a little more concern. Wilbur glanced down to see he was gripping the sides of the chair with white knuckles, clenching his fists so hard that his whole body was beginning to tremble.

It bothered him. Hell, this whole damn group was wedged under his skin like an itch that wouldn't go away, but he couldn't voice his thoughts. How was anybody being helped through this?

He stood up quickly and clenched his fists at his sides, tugging on the material of his black skinny jeans. "No, I just need some air." He huffed in the strongest voice he could muster, as he spun on his heel and stormed out. He wasn't going back, he decided. This group was a waste of his time and energy, and he couldn't stand being in a room full of fucked-up kids like himself and see nothing ever change. What a depressing environment, he thought, as he sat at the curb and rested his chin in his hand, fuming silently while he waited for his racing heart to slow down.

Maybe he was overreacting. He always did, but sometimes, it was necessary. The support group was supposed to make him feel better, not worse. And yet somehow, every time, he felt the latter. He wasn't sure how long he had sat there for, but the next thing he knew, a familiar horn sounded and he looked up to see his mom pulling up beside him, the worried look on her face could be seen even from where he was.

He climbed in the car next to her and felt his gut twist in guilt upon seeing the look in her face.

"Wilbur, what happened? I get a call from Josh saying you walked out of group? Why on Earth would you do that?" She sounded frazzled, like she was at her wit's end, and it _hurt_. Of course, once again his selfish motives had hurt other people, and of course the person he wanted to hurt the very least.

"I don't know, I just.." Wilbur trailed off helplessly. He couldn't bring himself to be entirely honest with her. "It doesn't help," he said plainly, leaving out the details of his minor anxiety attack. It was strange, usually he could tolerate group, but today, for whatever reason, it just wasn't going to happen. Maybe it was the stress from the fact that his most personal possession was missing. Maybe it was the fact that his dad was going out of town on another business trip tomorrow. Maybe it was a whole lot of things. For whatever reason, Wilbur was tired. Tired of the group. Tired of the pity. Tired of his mom looking at him like he was an alien; her and everyone else. He couldn't stand it. He drowned in his thoughts, wondering when the hell he'd get out of this funk. Wondering if he'd ever stop feeling like a disappointment.

He was pulled from his thoughts when the passenger door opened next to him. Somehow they were back home in the garage, his mother staring at him with worry as she held open the door beside him. "Wilbur, honey, why don't you head inside and get some rest. I'll call you down for dinner later," she soothed, reaching over and unbuckling his seatbelt for him. Slowly he stepped out of the car, and with numb feet he trudged to his room and shut the door. Alone at last, he collapsed on his bed and curled into his cool sheets, closing his eyes against the headache that was beginning to form in his skull. He'd already asked his parents if he could stop going to support group, but they seemed incredibly convinced that it was the best thing for him. Carl was even on their side, saying that maybe some day he'd be able to open up and get the help he needs.

Wilbur hated that. Hated feeling like head case that everyone had to treat differently. Hated that everyone walked on thin ice around him like he could snap at any moment. The support group was stupid, his journal was missing, and tomorrow he had school.

He exhaled stressfully and untangled himself from the sheets. Carl was downstairs and the rest of the family was off doing whatever it is they usually do. With a racing heart, Wilbur locked his bedroom door and went to his desk. The bottom of his desk drawer had a tiny lock on the handle that he skillfully opened and set aside. Wilbur stared down at the contents. One bottle of vodka, a half-empty packet of cigarettes and two lighters. How he had managed to come by such things, well, it wasn't easy. First, he'd stolen the vodka from his parents months ago, and only when he was sure that they hadn't noticed was he planning on drinking it- if he ever got the nerve. The cigarettes he happened to see in Tallulah's purse. He assumed she didn't want anyone knowing she smoked, because she didn't make a big deal about them being missing.

Wilbur held the pack in his hand now, as he slipped a lighter into his pocket and trudged to the other side of the room. He crawled over his bed and knelt on it as he unlatched the large window on the wall beside it. He pushed open the glass and crawled through the rectangular space, stepping out onto the roof.

Wilbur hated being a bad kid, but he hated feeling stressed out even more so. He stared blankly at the glowing flame of the lighter before bringing it to the cigarette between his lips and inhaling deeply. The biting cold of the night was made slightly more bearable as smoke and heat danced around his fingers. He took breaths in and out, sometimes with his lips on the cigarette, sometimes not. He coughed quietly as he brought his knees to his chest, closing his eyes against the shimmering lights of the city in the near distance. It was quiet on the roof, and as of a few years ago, it became his favorite place to sit and think. Away from everyone and everything, he was free to be alone with his thoughts.

It wasn't always a good thing.

The intercom system chimed as his mother's voice filled his bedroom, drifting out the open window and to Wilbur's ears. "Dinner," she sang happily, chatter from the rest of the family picked up in the background. Quickly he put out the cigarette and flicked it off the roof, carefully holding the rest of the pack and the lighter in his other hand. After stashing everything away and locking the drawer again, he tossed a hand through his messy hair and hurried down to the dining room.

Sure enough, he found everyone waiting for him. Surprise,surprise, everyone but his father was there. That was typical.

Wilbur took his place next to his mother and grabbed his fork, mumbling some type of apology as he quickly began to shovel food into his mouth. Franny gave him a funny look, and Wilbur tried his best to not look suspicious, which was a lot harder with the whole family openly staring at him. Wilbur froze when he heard Franny sniff the air, but she said nothing as she went back to her food.

Above the side conversations that were taking place, Lucille spoke to Wilbur in a loud and smiley voice as she asked how therapy was going. Wilbur sunk down a little bit further in his chair and felt his face burn with embarrassment. She was going to bring this up now? In front of everyone. Franny gave her a warning look as she jumped in for Wilbur. "He's doing great. We think it's really helping him, being able to talk out his feelings with a great group of friends." She patted his arm as she spoke with a sort of finality. Lucille nodded as she sipped from a wine glass. Wilbur didn't miss the look on Carl's face from across the room, where he was serving Uncle Art more garlic bread.

Coughing to break the awkward tension on his side of the table, Wilbur also didn't miss the way Franny's head whipped in his direction, eyebrow raised higher than he'd ever seen. _God, will she ever get off my back?_, he wondered, ducking his head a little lower to hide the nervous flush on his cheeks.

Nobody else bothered him for the rest of the meal, which he was grateful for, but it was difficult to stop worrying about anyone noticing something odd about him, like maybe the fact that he actually had a terrible day at therapy, or that he had just smoked a cigarette only moments ago. The appetite he might have had was gone, and Wilbur sat with his legs quivering in suppressed anxiety as the rest of the family finished their meal and cleared from the table slowly. Eventually even Franny took her glass of wine and excused herself from the table, leaving only Carl to clear away the dishes like usual. Wilbur stayed seated last, waiting for Carl to inevitably ask him what was going on. As much as he appreciated the fact that he had someone to confide in, Carl's support could sometimes turn into pushiness, and Wilbur often found himself forced into sharing details he would much rather keep to himself.

¨Very subtle, by the way." Carl noted, stalking past Wilbur with an armful of dirty dishes. Wilbur pushed in his chair and calmly followed the robot to the empty kitchen, putting himself in his path while attempting to act as cool as possible. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Carl shrugged and tried to get around him. "I think you know what I'm talking about." He huffed, and Wilbur caught a glimpse of that worried and disappointed look he always gave him, when he knew he had fucked up.

¨I don't-,¨

¨Smoking, huh? When did you pick up that habit?¨

Wilbur stuttered, trying to figure out how he could have known. Before he could ask, Carl rolled his eyes and side-stepped him, "Oh please. You _reek." _He pointed out, scoffing when he caught the look on Wilbur's face. "Don't look so surprised. Any amateur would know a thing or two about using cologne or something. OR not smoking at all. What would Franny think? And your dad?"

"Oh right. Because dad is always around. And mom always pays attention to how I'm feeling." He drawled out sarcastically. Carl whirled around to give him the hardest glare he'd ever seen from him.

"You know." Carl said darkly, exhaling in frustration as he tried to control his obvious anger. "Maybe you'd be having a lot easier time these days if you would stop throwing yourself so many pity parties. It's not always going to be about you, alright?" He said harshly, the volume of his voice raising with each word.

Wilbur took a step back, feeling his chest tighten in a ball of built-up emotion. Carl looked like he immediately regretted what he had said, but he stood firm and waited for Wilbur to give him a response. But Wilbur turned on his heel without giving him one and stormed to his room. Too tired and hurt to do much else, he melted into the warmth of his bed and slept away the overwhelming urge he felt to cry.

**A/N: Ok yes, I just now realized that I'm using flying cars (how cliche of me) instead of the bubbles that they have in Tomorrowland via the movie. Buuut, for the purposes of my story, let's all just pretend that they have flying cars. Don't hate me for changing that lol. **


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